Scars
by Winkaku
Summary: In retrospect, everything seems so broken.


(A/N: this story is in dedication to one of my all time favorite characters and an exploration of what ifs and an in-depth look at what a Spartan culture could have been like.

Spartans are a people segregated from society with nothing but the military to provide structure and combat for their purpose; that's got to have an effect on ones construction of a culture.

I know nothing beyond what the video game has told me and so there will be inaccuracy with the original novel plot, thus the AU.

In my eyes, a story is what you make of it, each perspective continuously changing and unique to every individual who hears it and shapes it; staying too strict and inflexible, I may as well be writing for my English professor.

This story is another look through another eye, simply put, I'm writing for fun so all you strict guys bail out. Also, now having lived with hens for almost a year, I see one of my old comparisons as a complete insult to the society and have re-written it slightly.

And for the love of whatever holy you believe in- I didn't read the friggin books!

The closest I've ever been to hell was when I was stuck in a car for 4 hours with a born again Christian.)

The scar behind the eye behind the story, the revised version… again.

- …loading…

Not many people knew that the chief was blind in his left eye.

Out of courtesy, no other Spartan would ever approach him from the left and the marines never quite knew why… because that's where I came in.

I made sure that there were no repeats of the "Spire Base Marine Incident"; that no one would ever come by unnoticed in his blind spot. I whispered in his ear from my home inside his helmet; as 117's AI, these kinds of things always came naturally soon enough.

In many ways I was his left eye.

Apparently, those marines that did come to know about it were rather cautious of him.

They spread the word after what had happened with PFC Satcher; he was a fine soldier, but he was reckless too…

-Joeus pelican docking bay number 376…

The mission was a simple one, 117 and two other Spartans were to take a handful of ODST spec ops soldiers to infiltrate a Covenant outpost via the underground service and sewer duct systems and cap the Covies before they became a problem for the surrounding cities.

The ODST soldiers traditionally went in order of power, Adams was the commanding officer and like almost all of the ODST fighters, there seemed to be an unspoken grudge against the Spartans.

"Chief, we'll be on pickup soon, the pelican ETA is in 5."

It was a strong stern clip with a haughty air to it, as if he were above him.

Though the lieutenant was normally of a higher-ranking nature, express orders were given from the commanding officers that he should take orders from 117 only.

He did, but barely, and he didn't like it in the least; his rambunctious and edgy behavior causing the Spartans to trip up over the lieutenants orders and those from 117, the conflictions and gaps within the information causing mistakes they couldn't afford.

The man had a thick Jersey accent that grated on his nerves and a face like a brick; that the chief could deal with, but the grunt needed a pounding, before his gun-ho leader nature around the Spartans got them all killed.

There was an issue of leadership brewing between the two and the other Spartan, Trier 271, could sense it and it made him nervous.

His partner Eathen 240 was becoming fidgety with his blades, discreetly snatching glances between the two potential leaders; Spartans didn't like to be nervous… for good reason.

Whatever made a Spartan nervous would give hell.

- …loading…

One thing that few people will ever truly acknowledge about the human race is that on the deepest and darkest level, we are all animals; separate a group of people from society and they will build their own based upon their needs and knowledge.

They were like wolves, creatures of their own fierce world that knew naught but combat, survival and the means to victory; a world with it's own unique laws to better the whole of the war machine that they were.

They roved in packs and they had leaders; they were ruthless, cold, calculating killers with such close and complex bonds and relations that they were almost a hive-mind mentality.

When the groups were all together they had only one leader, the strongest of them; perhaps not the strongest in purely force but the best in the way that the leader could face down all others and win.

They were a unique society of checks and balances; the only thing that mattered to them as a whole was the satisfactory completion of a mission and preventing anything whatsoever from jeopardizing that outcome or the safety of their brothers and sisters in arms, mind and blood.

Their leader had to be strong, brave, swift and mindful and smart and perhaps a little lucky too.

Battles for dominance were quick, violent and deathly fierce, often ending in numerous injuries, some near fatal and they did not end until the opposition either surrendered or was removed.

They had postures and gestures of dominance and of submission and trust that were completely unique to their society, each with it's own meaning and display shared almost exclusively among other Spartans. Their language was composed of many different facets, be it mathematics, sign, symbol, sound and body; other such languages like computer binary, certain AI specifics and code were standard as well.

Authority was the chain of command; those who give orders and those who take orders on the most basic of military levels and stature.

A meeting between two powers was a fearsome sight to behold indeed.

There was a time, years ago when the few remainders of the Spartan one project had been integrated with the Spartan two soldiers, back in a time before Reach had been destroyed and glassed and desecrated.

The air about them had been thick enough to choke on, the tension would strangle a sangheli and as the leader of the two project met the elder and semi retired one project it was something that a person would not soon forget.

There was no fight at first, no battle and no blood.

The elders knew they were unfit to fight and therefore unfit to lead and they stepped down, prideful, old for a Spartan, battle-scared and yet still radiating power and intelligence; their talents would be used elsewhere.

All but one of them; the eldest and most powerful, the top leader of the Spartan one soldiers.

Spartan 1 project, Spartan # 121

Male

Age 42

Edrier was a seasoned warrior who had seen too much and fought all the more, he was old, powerful and fast becoming ill of mind.

His body was a standard muscular composition, though somewhat lean he had a rogue like frame and a rag-tag look that compounded the speedy nature of his slightly lanky yet powerful body.

Brass blonde hair cropped short and a physique marred by scars like the man had been through a blender; numerous plasma burns stood out on his ivory pale skin like blackened rose blossoms and stitch scars marred the beauty of his rough cut face.

The most striking feature of Edrier by far had been and would always be the sheer green of his eyes, a cloudy moss with an emerald shimmer, a sign that there was still life in the old war dog.

_PTSD- post-traumatic stress disorder- A psychological disorder often the direct result of experiencing sever emotional trauma such as crime, battle or natural disaster; resulting in sleep disturbances, flashbacks, anxiety, tiredness and depression._

The day would soon come that the old man would have to be "taken out to pasture" and that was the job of the leader.

All those unfit for combat or society were to be erased from it and one of the many jobs of team leader was to personally see to their death or discharge, be it peaceful or painful.

- Hanjo point, 3 clicks from the service duct entry point…

"Mick take point, corporal you're in the middle; saddle up and dish out arms, Spartans cover flank!"

Cortana was "shifting" around irritably inside the confines of the master chiefs helmet, clearly offended by the man and his erroneous display of battle tactics, which had already lost them precious men.

Eathen 240's calculating mind and his multi-tact AI Wilder 4580 would make quick work of any covenant strategic placement and both she and her partner knew that

They were excellent strategic minds and one of the few around that could ever say that they had played chess with Cortana and won, she did after all cheat "for the fun of the game" as she often put it.

Trier 271 had excellent control over a magnum and could even work as a sniper with it.

117 had once seen him put a bullet through two hunters at once, killing them both instantaneously, with nothing but a pistol.

Yet due to some estranged power grudge the ODST were acting as if the Spartans weren't even there, they would not even speak to him and the others, squandering their immense talents over pride and endangering the mission.

- …loading…

Spartans had few rules beyond that which the military gave them; follow orders, life is precious, do not jeopardize the mission and do not challenge authority unless you are prepared to fight for it.

All they really knew was how to kill and how to survive and carry out orders; the useless did not live long within their society; they either died on the battlefield or were removed.

They were smart about it, they knew each Spartan was an invaluable member of the team each with their own irreplaceable individual skills, the leaders always listened to those beneath them and if they didn't then they were quick to be overthrown for the good of the whole.

They did not kill senselessly and did everything possible to prevent the death of their own, from treating wounds and tending to the ill and even placing themselves in the line of fire, friendly or otherwise.

Every input was important, every ally a quintessential element to survival, all pride did not matter to them beyond their games.

"…games?"

- Hanjo sewer system and city service ducts…

They were currently hauled up in a decrepit underground drainage system a quarter mile from the covenant encampment and already facing the beginnings of a thick Covenant opposition.

"Sergeant!"

117 snapped to attention to the lieutenant, fully aware of the purpose behind the use of rank as an address.

The man was going to get them killed, he refused to involve the Spartans reducing them to menial grunt work, 117 had already used his influence within his small pack of Spartans to prevent the others from attempting to usurp the prideful fools position and killing him for the threat he was.

"Sir, we can complete this mission faster if you-"

"You'n your _team_ are only here because the captain is getten jumpy! You will follow my orders down to the letter and you will like it, understand!"

The man did not ask it of him, he ordered him to do so and the rasp of his voice echoed down the musty drains with the lingering smell of plasma and the far off cry of a group of jakals closing in on their position.

As well as the familiar clank of cobalt blue hunter armor, spikes grazing the damp brick ceiling.

Cortana whispered in his ear, and from the look of Eathen 240's tilted amber faceplate Wilder 4580 was thinking the same.

The ODST would no doubt send his men up after them without their aid and that would result in unnecessary casualties and possibly even mission failure; if the heavy plasma carbines of the hunters went off it would alert the entire encampment to their presence, push them back and possibly even bury them all beneath the rubble of the already collapsing tunnels.

All Spartans had a single reigning mentality: failure is not an option.

- Reach, training fields, instillation 6…

Edrier had sadly fallen ill to fever and lost his mind to the ever-bloody battlefield, despite the best efforts of his team and the doctors; soon the leader of all the Spartans, best and brightest was called upon wordlessly to give their elder the good death he deserved.

No Spartan fighter wished to die belly up on a cot, this semi-ritual was their last right; to die as the warriors that they were meant to be and it was the only thing that they would ever demand of those around them.

They acknowledged the leaders powerful passing with a downturn of the head as he made his way to the abandoned training yard of dust and dirt and blood and at one time even tears.

They were born here and here they would die but just as Edrier had lived, he would not die without a fight, that much was expected of him.

It was the first time that the leader had been forced to kill one of his own, to spill what was to him, his own flesh and blood.

The night was chilled, even the stars hidden behind the dark grey of the clouds and the world a perpetual twilight quiet.

The battle that ensued was the most intense combat of hate and pain and power that had ever been witnessed before.

There was the bloody and the broken, the trampled and the silent observers that hid themselves away, safe from the waking wrath of their leaders and the powerful exchange of blows and blades and rock and might.

No one interfered, it was almost a rule but one just knew better than to disrupt this desperate and mournful trial by fire.

Blow after blow fell for hours upon hours ringing out into the night a bloody smack and slice, into the morning light as the suns began to rise, yet the building and its inhabitants did not shift nor twitch or stir from their state of perpetual agonizing limbo in shadow.

Blood smeared the steel and dirt as the two unarmored Spartans tore each other apart, bones broke and flesh gave way to bloody scars and tears, neither one willing to give up the fight.

Wet gasps and grated, gurgling rails peppered the air with blood and spit as the cold, calculating fighters systematically met each punch with another.

Old Edrier, though beyond his years, fought like a man in his prime, though in end nothing more than a fighter forever caught upon the battlefield of a fever-bright war without end and nothing but a salvaged scrap metal blade for a weapon.

Edrier, in a last ditch effort to save his neck from the others kick, struck forward with the jagged edge of scrap metal, cutting up the front of the others arm with a roar of pain, defiance and anger.

They were almost equals, the one too old and mind broken, fighting like a demon, reduced to an enraged animal, the other a powerful youth determined and strong, heated rage and calculation.

It was a brutal affair; one mighty fist traded for another's powerful kick, a symphony, almost like an exotic dance and a fluid motion as the leader lashed out and caught old Edrier from the side with a sickening, bone-crunching crack on the head.

For the first time in the entire fight a warrior fell bloody to the ground and for the first time in far too many years, Edrier was afraid.

He lay almost prone, clouded yet fever sharp eyes wide and angry, hot blood pouring from the wound on his head, vomiting spit and bile and blood that steamed in the cold morning air, febrile heat separated from the body.

Pale broken arms unwilling to lift his beaten body, left to snarl in the dust and dirt, blood wetted sand gumming up his cut lips and eyes, yet he rose again like wraith from a corpse.

The leader lashed forward for the kill and like two cobras amidst strike, both men set in enraged looks, glares soaked in blood and sweat and broken bodies; they charged.

- Hanjo sewer system and city service ducts…

Quick as lightning Spartan 117 lunged forward and grabbed the ODST leader by the leather armored scruff of his neck lifting him over a half a foot in the air to a little under eye level as his black boots dangled helplessly, pinned by the others massive form smashing him against the solid brick walls of the sewer system.

The other ODST leveled to fire and were instantly cut off and knocked down by the two other Spartans before they could even finger the triggers of their standard MA5B Assault rifles.

117 thrust him irrevocably into the concrete, unerringly gentle for a Spartan yet excruciatingly painful to a normal human.

The stone walls crumbled into a rough human shaped indent, armor plating bent pliable under titanium-clad fingertips and the earthen ground seemed as if to tremble under the low almost inaudible rumble of a displeased growl within the Spartans chest, rattling his ribs in tandem with his powerful demanding heartbeat.

"You are under my command and will follow orders as given, my men and I will not die by your incompetence."

His voice was a low, powerful and near silent roar of absolute strength and intolerance.

His gaze, though nearly masked behind the MJOLNIR armor, was a deadly guise of hell and a vow of pain that radiated through them carrying a promise of dismemberment; the low rumble of might within him and the wine of straining armor over sheer power and muscle demanded obedience and left none to question or to even want to question.

Canines bared, back hunched over to show a large muscled form, his entire body radiating insurmountable strength not to be trifled with as 117 slowly, dangerously raised his hand from the terrified mans throat to his head, gauntleted steel hands swallowing his face in black and steel and further crushing him against the wet and cold crumbling concrete.

Unable to see through the coal onyx of steel or to feel beyond the painful throb of his body and the screaming ache of his pressurized head as jagged, muck ridden rock was forced into the back of his skull and the black of the Spartans massive almost clawed hands or the blood seeping through the demons fingers; he could neither move nor even scream as the steady footsteps of jakals came closer down the dingy corridors.

"You will stay behind with 271 and await evac."

His tone and form, intent and power bartered no impedance or objection.

As 117 released the traumatized soldier's head from his grip the man slid listlessly to the ground with a silent thud, the smell of urine and copper blood odor stagnating the dank air and small pieces of brick and stone crumbling to the ground, a rough man shaped imprint of the ODST left behind to mark their passing.

The other ODST cowered behind 271 as, with a near invisible nod, 117 and Eathen 240 set out to battle unhindered and Lieutenant Adams lay almost lifeless against the wall from which he had nearly lost his life but most definitely lost his mind.

117 had hated to do that.

Within less then a minute the jakals had been killed, slaughtered in cold blue blood before they could even screech in their foreign bird like tongue, the hunters felled with nary a roar and no green carbine glow had ever had the chance to grace the musty brick lined corridors with an eerie light.

The complete and utter destruction of the base took only an hour, the enemies defenses ripped apart with a disturbing and chilling ease.

Upon arrival at their current base, Omega 6 on Janus 9, the Spartans were briefed and shortly afterwards they were already preparing for the next battle.

The fighters conversed with one another in their own unique and subtle language of body and mind, hardly ever saying anything at all or moving in the slightest yet understanding each other perfectly, a testament to their near telepathic bond.

Not a single ODST within the base spoke to them, their group terrified by the sight of a bloodied and broken lieutenant.

The group had lost three of their highly trained men due to Adams's incompetence as a leader.

The commander had made an example of the forlorn and traumatized ODST leader, forcing a temporary end to the feud that the other had created; nameless pride and foolish glory hounding was stupid and got men killed, this was the result of it.

This broken, bleeding, twisted mass of a battered soldier was the result of defying logic and leader.

The man was a mess, his armor warped from callous hands, uniform tattered and mind shattered as the medics attended to his many cuts and the profuse bleeding of his broken nose.

He shivered like a leaf in the wind, eyes wide and sightless, shivering from an invisible cold.

However, ODST were proud creatures to a fault.

- …loading…

You didn't know that Spartans played games?

Yes but they did so with the only thing they really knew how to do: to fight and to kill, unless it was chess or something of the likes; they were unnervingly quick at picking up on the games that the marines played throughout the various but ultimately limited contact that they'd had with them. From innumerable card games and blackjack card counting to tic-tac-to, any opportunity to learn was eagerly taken advantage of.

Of course they never killed each other in their more special games, like tag or king of the hill, just showed the other player that they could have.

Games often resulted in hideous but always non-fatal injuries; from chipped bones, lacerations from claw like nails and the occasional playful nip; bite marks, deep wounds from large incisors, two shallow bleeding cuts across the jugular.

It was as if to say, that in doing so, the other could have killed you if he or she wanted to but didn't because they like you and they trust you to help. The purpose behind any game was always a sharpening of skills and mind, an affirmation of bond and just like the battles for dominance it would not end until surrender; it was a bloody affair for certain but for them, an amusing one.

To the vague and brokenly near-human Spartan society of subtlety, military law and teamwork, careful placement and usurping of powers and strategy, nothing had a single purpose.

Even sex had become an oddity.

It was an unappealing idea and an act that few deigned to engage in, their lack of knowledge and experience or care for such arbitrary things painfully obvious.

Their eerie lack of want would sometimes confuse other soldiers and rumors subsequently flew about like drunken pigeons, especially after one of the few marines that they had contact with had actually tried to pull a move.

Only to be hastily separated by angry officers from a near clueless "partner" and fired on the spot.

However, Spartans were always fast learners...

Bonds became so thick that even the scientists began to suspect some form of developing telepathy due to the augmentations; when one was needed or in trouble the others would always somehow know instantly and in seconds so would all the other Spartans.

Trust was a very important element to Spartan society, they moved as one and trusted each other to do so.

- Base Omega 6, pelican drop-ship docking bay number 12…

The ODST Lieutenant Adams walked forward shakily behind the Master chief, each step a trained quiet, knife held in the belts of his armor.

The man died swiftly and painlessly, a solid blow to the head nearly snapping it off of the broken and crushed frame of what was left of his crumbling neck and bashed in skull.

117 turned around to face what he had wrought and came shamefully to see the lifeless corpse of PFC William Satcher, a young man of great promise and a wit to be treasured.

"What the fuck is wrong with you boy!" The commander screamed, leaping down from a warthog, guns at the ready; he was pissed and rightfully so, eyes straight forward and the veins on his temple and neck throbbing visibly as he turned on 117 with a look of pure disgust.

"I'm sorry." Cortana's sweet voice rang out clear as a bell from the Spartans onboard speakers, a voice of reason and an icy calm as 117 gazed at the upturned palm of his hand almost curiously; not a speck of blood present to mar the standard military green of his gauntlet.

"I'm sorry chief…"

The other two Spartans flitted about curiously, like birds before a kill at the chief's right side, crows at the devils right hand.

"I should have been watching… your man approached him from a blind-spot. I didn't warn either of them… it was innevitable and I should have warned him…"

She sounded sad; almost depressed as the Chief turned to board the pelican for his next flight, unperturbed by the events in his guise but in reality, this was just one more thing he could never truly forgive himself for.

Lieutenant Adams retired from the military shortly after his encounter with the Spartans; he lived his remaining years with his wife and children and never forgot the heartless yet painfully damaged spirit and mind of what a Spartan really was, of what they had to be.

He lived with his loved ones for two more years before his world was glassed.

They didn't make it.

-Reach, training fields, instillation 6…

A spray of blood clawed out towards the heavens as the leader, John-117 leapt back in a roar of pain, a single large splinter of metal gauged into the left side of his face.

Wordlessly and without falter and with jet fast speed he wrenched the makeshift knife from his eyes in a mist of red and slit Edrier's throat as the old soldier deftly dove in to gauge the blade farther along its original target.

It was a clean cut from the bottom of the right ear down and across the jugular nearly severing the elder's head from his shoulders in a plethora of blood, red gore gushing out with every pained and frantic heartbeat, the tissue too damaged to carry blood.

Just like that, the deed was done and old Edrier-121 fell dead to the ground, blood already beginning to pool around them, the previous Spartan leader and one of the most powerful soldiers finally broken by the ebb and flow of time and tide.

117 fell backward to the earth with a slick thud, bloody soil sloshed onto his beaten and grime covered form, mud from a midnight rain still clung to his cheeks and ragged frame as blood poured from his stinging open wounds.

Edrier had taken everything the Spartan could muster to fell, he had broken his left arm, three ribs, torn his flesh wide open and dislocated his left knee at a sick upward slump.

His right lung was punctured and his left ankle sprained, a large gash ran the length of his chest and blackened bruises too numerous to count splashed his ivory pale body like stale paint.

Congealed blood crusting on his lips, deep wounds that stung in the air and hair torn and wet, soggy in the rain, sweat and blood glistening like foggy liquid drops tainting the morning dew a rusty pink.

"Well done…" Gasped out the exhausted leader, voice grating like old gravel, blood dribbling from his mouth in small rivulets, red staining a beautiful, strong and lily-white battle beaten frame of scars and wounds as he smiled into the full of the sunrise.

The other had beaten Edrier to death.

two broken ribs, multiple cracks interlaced within both arms, a broken collar bone, chipped skull and so many bruises that the man seemed almost a blue and red fleshed corpse of twisted ivory.

A fighter to the end, his eyes remained open and were still somewhat focused even in death, broken body still speaking of power and a time when Edrier was a proud, calculating military mastermind, a creature of strength, tradition and skill.

They trusted each other to be just that.

The battlefield clear and the combat over DI and Petty officer Menendez allowed the medics to proceed and attempt to treat the surviving leader.

This was the way that their warriors shined, in trusting even through death; they had no right to interfere in the society that they so beautifully crafted from the hands they'd so eagerly broken.

The scientists and officers still shaken and terrified from what they had just seen were rightfully and massively apprehensive of approaching the quiet Spartan as they waited for a queue from the Spartan that would allow them to continue without interference.

117, still bleeding, leant forward and gently as he could, adrenaline worn out hours ago and body trembling from blood-loss, pain and wounds; he closed the others eyes with the palm of his scarred pale hand and lay the man to his well deserved rest.

-…Loading…loading complete… Sangheli home world, human/alien base #124, Righteous Fury, barracks #132, armor suite…

"He never regained the sight in his left eye, though it healed remarkably well and that's why no one ever comes up to him from behind on the left side…"

"Johnson… Johnson… Johnson, are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah I hear you lady, big green's got one hellofa chip on his shoulder if you ask me though."

Whenever Johnson had questions he always went to Cortana, she always answered him, sans bullshit.

"Well I take comfort in the fact that I didn't."

"I used to like you before, now your just a bitch; what'smatter, is another AI in your helmet too much competition?"

Jokingly and sardonic in fashion, Johnson's digital form quivered in a rookie AI maneuver to express his emotions, like a shrug of his shoulders as he continued his discussion with Cortana; safely ferreted away within the remnants of his CNS Transponder, inside the chiefs helmet back at their current base.

"Yes, who knew that in a 17,982,102 to 1 chance a botched flood infection, a nervous disorder and energy spikes from a forerunner maintenance droid would carbon copy your psyche to your CNS Transponder chip… though I cannot truly say I regret it."

"You'n everyone else blue." Said Johnson with his near signature laugh, a rough bark.

It had been quite a surprise for the both of them to discover that upon inserting the sergeant's chip there had been another presence.

It was standard regulation that those officers with CNS Transponder chips inserted for neural interface have their chips removed and collected upon death; he had simply installed it temporarily in order to save room for other items.

The man was like cigar smoke and allspice on the brain and a hot poke in the grey matter with one hell of a surprise.

He was a great man and lived on as a great AI with a little more than regulation personality and a normal non-"smart" AI lifespan.

The chief and Cortana had passed him off as a ships AI and soon the man was bouncing around from bit to bit enjoying his newfound freedom with his usual vigor.

He would scare techs, pop up in miscellaneous places by accident or on purpose one could never tell, he was actually taking quite a liking to his new form.

His favorite activity by far was in regaling the countless stories of his battles to anyone who would listen and tales of the demon to ungogy and sangheli.

Many of the ex-covenant races and warriors went out of their way to listen to his stories; they were gripping and extravagant.

He told tall tales of courage under fire and recited the events of Halo in all its glory.

The young ungoggy flocked to him whenever they found him and races young and old, be they alien or human, would gather round to hear head or tail of the demon.

Even the hunters, whose featureless faces showed no real emotion, would be easy to read; spines erect and bodies tilted to a better vantage point in order to hear the story.

Johnson could charm a prophet from its seat with the stories he weaved.


End file.
